non-existential crisis

Lucien

my mother picked up smoking / so my grandfather could hardly forget / the smell of death & how / it could spill / from just anyone’s lips. / when i mouthed my first word, / he said i

looked like my father more / as if i cupped silence / instead of living / half her atoms. / he

could hardly memorise my face / past my mother’s eyes & neither could he give a second

thought about how half-finished / my face became. / he might as well have turned me / into

another cigarette to burn / with her / so that my body can become a sum of its parts, /

drooping between his lips & behind / his heart / like a phantom limb / untouching, / one more blurred surface / i cannot walk. / my eyes will always be hers, / my time always borrowed, / the years my mother never served, / like the geometry of scars left / by death on my limbs / my grandfather sees / when i turn my back to him. / i’ll always be her / as much as he distrusts his gut feeling, / as much as he knows / i’ve grown & will die slower / outside her stomach. / i’ll always love her / as long as i touch the parts of me / that made her feel / like something / else, / as long as / she was worth missing / after all.